


Lahar

by LogosMinusPity



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Smut, aka fareeha in her military formal wear, and angela having the time of her life wearing a telling dress, and the effect that has on her gf, formal wear setting, wherein angela ziegler is the world's biggest tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 10:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10187951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogosMinusPity/pseuds/LogosMinusPity
Summary: Lahar: A torrential flow of water-saturated volcanic debris down the slope of a volcano in response to gravity. (gratuitous Pharmercy smut). Also note that this is unedited so I apologize for any mistakes in there.





	

Angela’s been a tease all night.

A bloody tease, Fareeha thinks to herself. She tries to think it sourly, but it’s hard to hold onto even that for longer than a passing second as soon as her gaze flits right back to the person in question. And how it’s hard to _keep_ her gaze anywhere but there.

Angela’s given a new definition to the old phrase ‘dressed to kill’, or at least Fareeha is certain of it.

And boy but was Fareeha the least prepared of everyone for it.

Formal balls have never been her ‘thing’. She went to them as practically commanded during her active tenure in the army, begrudgingly putting on the stiff and impractical uniforms and then escaping the balls as soon as was socially acceptable to do so without fear of reprisal from a C.O. Maybe the difference is that she’d never had a date for one either.

Maybe. Or maybe the difference is just Angela Ziegler in general. Hard to say. Hard to do anything when the way that backless, braless, flimsy bit of material that only just covers…

Fareeha forcibly jerks her eyes back up and away and sucks in a quiet breath between her teeth.

Powers help her.

She hadn’t even wanted to go this damned ball in the first place, hadn’t wanted to dress up in the high-collared and medal-decorated jacket and field all the usual polite questions about being an Amari and being part of Overwatch now. Why couldn’t she just donate money to charity from the happy anonymity of her bank account and computer?

Of course, any thoughts of her own irritation had gone right out the window as soon as Angela had taken her long coat off at here at the charity event itself, and revealed the exact extent--or lack thereof—of her dress. The swooping halter, the lack of any back, the lack of any practical side coverage...

Again, Fareeha’s eyes unintentionally drop for a moment as Angela is continuing to speak to whoever it is she’s speaking to. Something something hospitals and research and Fareeha’s brain has stopped trying to pay attention altogether now.

At least until suddenly the conversation stops, and Fareeha jerks her gaze up this time to find Angela looking right back up at her.

 _Shit_.

Sweat prickles at the back of her neck, but Angela’s gaze reveals nothing more than usual. Instead, Angela leans up to whisper something. Her red lips are close enough to almost just tickle against her ear as she speaks in a low voice meant for Fareeha and Fareeha alone.

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

 _That_ makes the blood go rushing right to Fareeha’s face...and right to her groin. She swallows heavily and snaps her back ramrod straight in response, and it does nothing for how the inseam on her pants presses discomfitingly into just where all that heat has settled.

“Can we go home yet?” She does not mean to sound quite that plaintive, but dammit, they’ve already been here for the normal amount of time Fareeha would tolerate on her own and then some. And...well...it’s not entirely her fault if Angela chose to wear a dress like _this_ , and press up against her like _just like this_ , and...

“Be a dear and go get another drink for me, will you?” Angela smiles up at her, eyes twinkling with the very clear knowledge of just _what_ sort of effect she’s having, and Fareeha heaves a sigh, recognizing when she’s already lost a battle.

She takes the stem of the empty champagne flute and makes her sorry way to the bar, grateful that her dark complexion can hide her still burning face. She has a feeling this is going to be the longest night of her life at this rate, and when she gets to the bar and the tuxedo dressed bartender, she decides to wisen up and order two champagnes. She’s going to need one for herself.

Fareeha is joined a moment later by a familiar cheery face at her side.

“Hey there, captain!”

Lena’s looking handsome as ever in a well-tailored tux of her own, her accelerator strapped nonchalantly below her red bowtie. Fareeha turns to glance across the crowd and finds Emily in a slim-fitting red dress; probably twice the amount of fabric as Angela’s dress. She sighs, and it’s as though Lena can practically read her mind.

“Wow! The doc’s dressed with looks to kill tonight, isn’t she?”

Just when Fareeha had been doing such a good job behaving herself, her eyes slide right back to where Angela is standing across the room, and the familiar heat coils and uncoils insistently in her gut.

“Mmm.” She makes a noise that sounds enough like agreement, but Lena still turns and raises both eyebrows at her, grinning enough to already give Fareeha a headache.

“What a photogenic pair you two make for the pictures, huh? Military officer with her lovely, world-class researcher date on her arm.”

“Easy for you to say,” Fareeha grumbles, and it’s the most she’s allowed herself to show of any of her ‘frustration’.

Lena laughs loudly at that, grin only growing. She hits Fareeha lightly on the shoulder after a moment.

“Don’t glare now, Amari. Enjoy the eye candy. You’re the one who gets to go home with her at the end of the night. Besides, the doc doesn’t dress like that for just anyone. Don’t look the gift horse in the mouth. ‘Course, can get kind of hard when the gift horse is looking at you...”

Lena points with her chin, and Fareeha looks up in time to see Angela favoring her across the room with a look that can only be describe in polite company as ‘bedroom appropriate’. Any hope she’s had of distracting herself while talking with Lena evaporates and the liquid heat goes helplessly rushing through her with an embarrassing intensity.

Lena gives her a gently understanding pat this time, even if she is still wearing a positively shit-eating grin. Fareeha makes a note to remember that.

“Oi, good luck, captain. Remember to enjoy your night!” Then she winks one last time and heads back toward her own girlfriend, fresh drinks in hand.

The bartender returns a moment later with two bubbling flutes of freshly poured champagne. Fareeha takes them and mumbles a prayer of fortitude for herself under her breath. Angela accepts the glass from her with a gracious nod of her head, and her fingers linger over Fareeha’s far too long for it be anything other than deliberate.

Long night indeed.

The rest of the time passes by in a blur. Fareeha feels more like the proverbial arm candy, silently standing by her girlfriend and fetching drinks when asked, in little mood to make small talk or polite conversation. No, her attention is very firmly drawn to her body’s own very clear and only growing response.

It makes her itch with need and desire alike, though she is more than disciplined enough to force back the urge to fidget. Still, her own libido—now goaded awake like this—is practically impossible to ignore.

She becomes so pointedly focused on trying to _not_ focus on it that she has to do a double take when Angela says something to her that isn’t asking her to grab a drink or similar.

“What?” She blinks hurriedly, and Angela smiles in a way that seems far too knowing when she repeats herself.

“I said, ready to go?”

“Yes!” Her voice comes out a bit strangled with the disbelief that Angela is finally taking mercy on her, and the heat resurges beneath her skin, burning and pointed.

Angela’s coat doesn’t take any longer than normal to pick up from coat check, but it feels to Fareeha like she's waiting for an eternity, Angela’s arm linked in hers, and she begins tapping one booted foot before she even realizes it. At least until Angela leans against her for a moment—good God but it looks like she could practically pop out of that dress with the wrong careless motion—and then Fareeha has to clear her throat and try not to act as impatient as what she is while her date chuckles next to her.

The automated rental car is thankfully much more expedient than the coat check, and is already waiting for them as soon as they step outside the building.

Chivalry is hardly dead, and Fareeha has the common decency to open the door and ensure Angela slides into their ride first before Fareeha follows. As soon as the car door closes shut behind her, though, all bets are apparently off.

Angela is on her before she can think about what her next move is, somehow impossibly straddling one leg, never mind that tight fitting dress, and for once Fareeha’s mind is anywhere but on the stubborn principle of wearing seatbelts.

The automated navigation and driving system asks one more time for verification of the destination, and Fareeha’s voice sounds harsh and ragged even to her own ears when she pulls back from Angela long enough to bark out the name of the hotel. Then the car is lurching into motion and Angela’s lips are covering hers again.

She opens her mouth to groan, and Angela’s tongue slides easily against hers. Her fingers are already at Fareeha’s collar, fumbling at the first of many buttons that keep the polished and stiff uniform put together.

 _Good luck with that_.

For once, it’s Angela who’s at the disadvantage in that regard, and Fareeha has no such problems with Angela’s own choice in outfit, particularly when her peacoat has been discarded to the side.

Her hands easily find and cup Angela’s breasts, and she feels the nipples harden and strain as she runs her thumbs over the scant strip of fabric that separates skin from skin. Easy enough to shift her hands slightly and slide under the chiffon and silk entirely, something she’s been silently aching to do the entire night—and doesn’t Angela seem to know it. Of course there’s nothing remotely resembling a bra; that much had been clear from the get go. Yet Fareeha still feels the grin twist her own lips upward when Angela makes a noise against her at Fareeha’s knowing touch.

A thought abruptly occurs to her, and she wonders as she continues to roll one nipple between her fingers if Angela bothered wearing underwear either. Curious, Fareeha starts to slide her hands lower, running them down Angela’s exposed back before settling on her hips a second time.

Suddenly they’ve stopped moving, and then Angela is calmly pushing away from Fareeha and reaching for the car door as the navigation system politely informs them that they have parked at the hotel garage.

Fareeha stares dumbly for too long as Angela stands to her full height on the concrete, and calmly asks Fareeha if she’s coming and oh could she grab Angela’s coat from the seat. Of course Fareeha ultimately does both, feeling for a long moment utterly helpless as she trails after Angela toward the elevator.

Only by the time they actually step into the lift and punch in their floor (seventeen bloody levels to go, dammit), does Fareeha manage to get her brain thinking just enough over the roaring magma of her own blood.

She glances up at the polished stainless steel door of the elevator, and sees the blur of red messily smeared across her lips from Angela’s lipstick. She glances sideways. Of course Angela has somehow already tended to herself and not a single hair is out of place. Typical.

Twice tonight Angela’s had the total upper hand in everything, and Fareeha doesn’t intend to be so easily played a third time. They reach the door to their room, and the lock clicks open from a quick swipe of her security card.

Fareeha doesn’t even bother waiting for the door to fully open. She pivots, tossing Angela’s coat into their room before picking Angela up in her arms and dropping her on the bed as the door closes behind them.

“Enough.”

She’s not even sure if she’s talking to Angela or to herself, but she’s hardly waiting for a reply. She reaches around to cup the back of Angela’s head, to draw her fingers through the soft hair like usual, and is immediately thwarted.

“Fucking...hairpins…” Fareeha complains, quickly giving up on the venture. Between the ungodly amount of pins and hairspray, nothing but a solid hour spent in front of a mirror and in a shower are going to undo Angela’s hair.

Angela chuckles at the rare bout of cursing from Fareeha, her voice perfectly coy and perfectly knowing. “My, but someone’s rather impatient.”

Fuck patience, too. Fareeha’s long since spent her coin there for the night. She lets loose a sound of vexation, pressing Angela back into the mattress and kissing along the curve of one ear. Angela gives an appreciable shudder beneath her.

“This is hardly fair,” murmurs Angela, tugging at Fareeha’s clothes.

Fareeha bothers straightening up only long enough to toss off her thick military coat—the thing is uncomfortable anyway—but refuses to give any more than that.

“Fair?” Her voice comes out in a low growl as she lowers herself back down to Angela, gently but very firmly pinning both pale wrists back down to the bed sheets. “Remind me again how fair this entire night has been to _me_.”

She lets Angela’s wrists go in favor putting her own hands to better use, running down her ribs, up under the chiffon. Angela makes a noise and pushes up into her, and Fareeha busies her mouth along Angela’s jaw, down her neck, along her collar.

She pushes her knee between Angela’s legs, making the hem of the dress ride up further and further still, her hands chasing the line of fabric until it’s almost completely balled up..

 _Knew it_. There’s always a special sort of victory in being right.

“And someone’s had an entirely different set of plans for the night, if I’m not mistaken.”

She enjoys the way Angela sucks in a gasp of breath and arches into her, hips jerking and no underwear to keep Fareeha from pressing her fingers against Angela’s slick and heated sex. It’s victory too when Angela’s fingers immediately dig into Fareeha’s back, silently urging for more.

More for Fareeha requires one particular barrier getting out of the way. She starts tugging the dress toward Angela’s head, making her intent fairly clear without having to use words.

“How much does this slip of material even cost?” she grumbles, knowing before Angela even states the outrageous number that she didn’t even want to really know.

All she wants is for the inexcusably frustrating excuse of a dress to finally and fully be out of her way. So she ignores the cash amount that’s casually stated, pushing the damned thing aside as Angela pulls it fully off. Now what little the dress covered before is there for Fareeha and Fareeha’s eyes only, and she drinks in the sight, swallowing heavily.

This time when she dips back down to close the distance between them, it’s not quite as frantic, not quite so clumsy as it might have been. Fareeha takes time enough to be deliberate when she kisses a trail from Angela’s neck down her sternum, when she spends just the right amount of time she wants on each breast. And when she finally drags her lips over the jut of hip bone, Angela is squirming even more than how much Fareeha wanted to while trapped in that damn ballroom.

“Fareeha…” Angela’s voice comes breathy with want, and now it’s Fareeha’s turn to raise her eyebrows back.

She could tease if she wanted, give Angela a taste of her own medicine back, but she doesn’t want to. She’s wanted one thing for the past few hours, and she’s hardly about to put it off any longer.

Angela jerks and moans at the first touch of Fareeha against her clit. Fareeha wastes no time, falling into the pattern she knows best. A moment later, her fingers join, finding just the right motions. She can feel Angela grow tighter against her, feel the hand that Angela now has in her hair dig into her scalp, hear the fevered encouragements that all tell her, closer, closer...closer still.

Then with a choked cry every muscle in Angela seems to constrict with hot excitement around Fareeha, and then Angela is falling back into the mattress, her hand now slack in Fareeha’s hair, the muscles in her thighs trembling as Fareeha withdraws her own hand, presses one last kiss to sensitive bundle of nerves there.

Fareeha takes her time pressing small, fluttering kisses down the length of Angela’s legs, watching through her eyebrows at how her girlfriend has one arm strew roughly over her face as she tries to slow her rapid breathing.

Angela’s voice emerges after a minute, still short of breath.

“If you come back up here with even a shred of clothing still on you, I’m going to be cross.”

Part of Fareeha wants to do it anyway, especially now that she’s certain that everything about tonight was fairly well calculated by Angela, but her own still insistent need throbs between her legs. So she makes quick work of stripping off her shirt and pants and all the other basic undergarments that were apparently not required if you wore dresses like Angela. Finally, she slides back up to her girlfriend, pausing to scowl at said offending dress, which wasn’t tossed fully from the bed in their earlier haste.

Fareeha offers a glare at the material before throwing it over her shoulder and onto the floor.

“You’re ridiculous. That much money for this thing?”

Angela pauses long enough to fix Fareeha with pleased smirk of her own. “Considering everything I got out of tonight? I’ll call that worth the price.”

The she covers Fareeha’s lips with her own, silencing whatever protests Fareeha might try to think of next.

The last wry thought to pass through Fareeha’s mind before her attention is very firmly redirected elsewhere is that maybe, just maybe, formal events aren’t so bad after all.


End file.
